


My Chick Do Stuff (That Ya Chick Wish She Could)

by danceyrselfmean



Series: WORLDSTAR [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Clint Barton is an asshole, Gen, Humor, Maria Hill is a troll, Matt Fraction ftw, Team Bonding, The Author Regrets Nothing, This is pretty much crack, Tony Being Tony, because clint, let's forget clint's whole backstory in AoU, seriously it never happened, steve discovers hiphop, there is actually a lot of cursing, this is pre-Ultron, video games - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-30 19:17:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3948523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danceyrselfmean/pseuds/danceyrselfmean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, the fic in which Steve discovers the magic that is hiphop.</p><p>--</p><p>  <i>“Are you,” he started, and then stopped, closed his eyes, and took a deep, shuddering breath. He honestly looked like he was about to pee his thousand dollar pants. “Are you listening to Ludacris?”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	My Chick Do Stuff (That Ya Chick Wish She Could)

It was basically a normal Saturday when this shit went down. Now, trust me, I've seen some seriously funny shit in my time. But this shit. _This shit_.

\---

We were lounging around in Stark's living room 'cause the alarms were thankfully not blaring for once and we had nothing that needed to be attended to immediately besides relaxation. Okay, so I hadn't done laundry in a while but I wouldn't exactly call that a pressing matter. Haha, pressing, get it?  
...  
I'm allowed to tell stupid jokes, I have a very stressful job. Also I still haven't done that laundry.

So Tony built me these platforms, right? In the middle of the living room so I can hang with the team and still feel comfortable. Say what you want about Tony Stark, but he's a first class friend and his carpets are fucking luxurious. They're like, ridiculously soft. Not that I spend much time on the ground, but if I had to pick my favorite floor to stand on it would be that one. It's like sinking into a fluffy cloud that massages your feet while you walk. It would be perfect for screwing on, if I was getting any.

Anyway, I was on a platform polishing my baby (get your head out of the fucking gutter you pervs, I'm talking about my bow, her name is Cecelia and she's precious). Nat was doing yoga behind the sofa 'cause I think she secretly likes getting us guys all riled up. She's very bendy. 

Ahaha, um, yeah. Bendy.

Tony and Thor were trying to play video games. I say trying, 'cause Thor kept smashing the controllers into a thousand tiny plastic pieces with those paws he calls hands and Tony literally can't ever stay on the Rainbow Road to save his life. Tony keeps a basket of backup controllers by the couch, which, seriously, hashtag Avenger problems. They seemed to be having fun, though, and I think that's what counts? (Maybe that's just for mentally retarded kids, I really don't know.) Honestly though for a man who has like 50 million compensating-for-my-dick-cars and pilots the Iron Man suit every day you'd think he'd be better at racing games.

Bruce was sitting by the window with a cup of tea and a newspaper, because he's secretly older than Rogers and is boring as hell sometimes despite his, uh, other nature. He tried to talk to me about books one day and I _might_ have literally run the other way. That's usually just a saying, but hey, I don't need books if I literally bring words to life. Life to words? Hell if I know.

Rogers himself was laying (sprawled, more like) on the couch with earbuds in. I think Coulson might have gotten him an iPod or an iPhone or something for Christmas, which, thank god, because he had somehow gotten his hands on a Walkman and nobody, not even Mr. Perfectly Chiseled Jaw, can make that shit look good. I honestly considered buying him some dad jeans and white sneakers and telling him they were all the rage, but even I'm not that cruel. 

He was bobbing his head to whatever he was listening to, which I assumed was blues or swing music or like, Elvis or something. I figured if he was going to catch up on modern music he'd start with the earlier decades, right?

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Wrong, Barton, you were fucking wrong, and thank god I was cause this is the kinda shit I'm gonna be telling my great-grandkids about.

So anyways, he was laying there and all of the sudden he got this confused look on his face. Pretty typical expression for him, actually. He popped the earbuds out, sat up, and asked, I shit you not, “Do they actually give out certifications to strippers? Is that a thing?”

 

The room went silent. Tony, who had been pouting 'cause he had just lost another game, got a look of pure, unadulterated glee on his face. But like, evil unadulterated glee. _Sinister_ unadulterated glee. Thor just looked confused. Nat kept doing yoga but she was smiling, which, I'm not going to lie, was very scary. Banner had choked on a mouthful of yerba mate and was still coughing by the time Tony answered.

“Are you,” he started, and then stopped, closed his eyes, and took a deep, shuddering breath. He honestly looked like he was about to pee his thousand dollar pants. “Are you listening to Ludacris?”

The room went silent again. Rogers looked like he wished he could shield-chop all of us, just to make us forget he had asked the question in the first place. He was sweating a little bit, and it had formed beads on his top lip. He swiped at his face nervously.

“Um...yes?”

“Who,” and here Tony took another breath, like he was still trying to come to terms with the fact that someone up there was looking out for him, “told you to listen to Ludacris? How did you find out about Ludacris? _Why are you listening to that particular Ludacris song_?”

Steve, it seemed, had lost all of his usual bravado in the face of interrogation à la Tony. 

“I, uh, I had heard that rap music was popular? You know, like an important genre these days. So I figured I should try to stay on top of recent musical trends. So I, um, I asked around about what to listen to and Hill was nice enough to make me a mix.” 

He flushed. “Some of these songs are really inappropriate. I didn't think it was okay to talk about dames this way.”

“Friend Steve!” Thor boomed out, waving his half crushed controller around in a an excited manner. “I am curious about this music you speak of, I would like to hear it!”

“Uh.” And here Steve stole a look around the room. Banner was still kind of red in the face from his close encounter of the herbal kind, Nat was in downward facing dog, and I, I was being the super spy that I am and keeping a straight face. 

“You're getting no help from me, Rogers,” I said, like the utter dick I am. “You left your socks on the couch last week. I didn't even know they made socks that big.” My face probably developed a dreamy look at this point. “Imagine how many batteries you could fit inside one of those socks...”

Steve grimaced and would have made a rude gesture at me if he'd been a normal person and not a fucking Boy Scout. “Uh, sure Thor. But maybe another time? I can e-mail you the Spotify playlist.”

Tony, who had been about to say something, snapped his mouth shut and frowned. “You know how to work e-mail? _You know about Spotify_?”

Steve stared back at Tony mulishly. “Of course I do. I'm not an idiot.”

Tony looked at Steve, his earlier good mood evaporated, suspicion written plain as day across his goatee. He stood, threw his controller on the couch, missed, and walked toward the kitchen dazedly. “I need to, uh. I need to re-evaluate my world view,” he said, over his shoulder, and hit the button for elevator. We watched, silently, as he stepped on and turned to face us with a blank, unseeing look in his eyes. He was muttering something under his breath, but the elevator doors closed before I could make out what he was saying. 

Still nobody made a sound. Nat got up from her yoga mat, walked over to where Steve was sitting, and tucked what looked like a fifty dollar bill into his shirt pocket before slinking out of the room.

Banner and I looked at each other. Then at Steve. Then back at each other. Steve, an uncharacteristically smug look on his face, popped his earbuds back in and started humming along to what I could only assume was California Love.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Spotify or Super Smash Bros.
> 
> I just really love hiphop.


End file.
